


Of the first meeting of Aragorn and Arwen

by GreenleafGirl



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-17 02:50:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11266398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenleafGirl/pseuds/GreenleafGirl
Summary: The tale of the first meeting of Aragorn and Arwen in Rivendell as I inagine it





	Of the first meeting of Aragorn and Arwen

**Author's Note:**

> No smut just an elaboration of the story that I always wanted to exist, a bit of fluff I guess?  
> Please be nice, this is my first attempt at any form of fanficftion :)  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Lord of the Rings, this is just for fun

Thus follows an account of the first encounters of the fabled king and queen of Gondor, recounted here in full in the tongue of men. 

Aragorn had always taken great enjoyment and serenity from the Lay of Luthien and often sang it quietly to himself as he wandered through the ancient forests bordering Imladris. These woods shielded the elf haven from unfriendly eyes and thus the last homely house was long protected from the poisonous grip of Sauron.   
Although Aragorn, now in his twenty-first year, had been brought to the haven of Rivendell well over a decade before, the woods he so often wandered always yielded a new path or glade for him to explore. This was something he so dearly loved about the elven woods, they seemed so alive around him- this was where his heart truly lay, in the wilderness, it seemed to sing and entice him ever further into the mysterious depths of low lying branches and golden canopies. He wished in the very depths of his being that he could remain here for all his long life, to be surrounded by the living beauty of the untamed world, but alas, in his blood he felt that he would soon be thrust into the path of the mantle he had never wanted for himself, a life so far from that which he cherished most. He feared what his life would become. Whispers of the malice of Sauron had crept slowly across the ancient places of Middle Earth once more, and the three elven rings that had been silenced for eons began to pulse with frantic magic even though their ties with the One Ring had been severed, they could feel its increased pull as shadows snuck back into the deep places of Middle-Earth. Sauron would make war ere long and Aragorn feared what this could mean for him, and for all men. Mithrandir seemed to have unwavering faith in his abilities to lead but Aragorn did not share such confidence and preferred to keep to the shadows of exile. Elrond, too, believed he could rise above the storms of his forefathers and rectify all the wrongs of Isilduir, but Aragorn was just one man, and a lost one at that. His purpose was veiled from him even though so many others seemed to see it so clearly. But that choice was not for some years yet and so he let himself drift into the sweet song of serenity. Such was life in Rivendell for Aragorn son of Arathorn for a brief and happy time.  
He sang softly as he walked, immersing himself in the clear air. He had been rambling since dawn and as the evening began to descend like a dusky rose blanket on the world around him he was still singing, lost both in his surroundings and his own thoughts. Never had he met a soul whilst wondering these woods and so when a movement caught his eye he stopped in his tracks. Perhaps he was dreaming, it was certainly believable enough from the golden light shining through the leafy canopy onto the lustrous trunks of the slender trees, heavy with delicately scented flowers. It seemed to him that he was surrounded by stars, gently dropping from an infinite heaven of green. He focused his keen eyes on the source of the movement, his breath caught in his throat.   
What he saw was an elf maiden so fair that the light pooling on the forest floor around her seemed remarkably dull in comparison. She had deep raven hair that seemed to cascade over her shoulders and down her back like shining rivulets of ink, her skin was pale but not bloodless, rather like untouched snow with the faintest rose blush in her sculpted cheeks. She seemed to shine with a light so pure and untarnished by evil.   
Aragorn had never been a man well acquainted with surprise or speechlessness, but in this moment he could do little but stare in awe at this creature that appeared to have been carved from the elvish legend of which he had been singing mere moments before. Could it be a dream? But surely his sleeping senses were not so finely tuned as to feel the faintest eastern breeze brushing through the hair at his right temple or to be able to smell the most delicate of lilies on the banks of the small river nearby. He could not tell, but the maid had appeared not to notice him and was gradually moving further in between the trunks of ancient trees. Only the thought of losing her from his sight spurred Aragorn into action, his leather clad feet began to move swiftly as he called to her through the approaching twilight by the only name he thought could be worthy of her. “Luthien!” he cried out, “Luthien!”. The young maid stopped and turned to face him. She, too, seemed to have been lost in thought up to now. Though she did not seem upset by the disturbance, only curious. She gazed at him intently as he weaved towards her through the trees. He had not the face of other men, he was immediately different, unmistakably one of the Dunedain, she thought. She was intrigued by this man, so young and alive, but scarred also. His features were handsome, his skin slightly golden, a testament of much time spent beneath the sun. His eyes were dark and seemed to burn with flickering embers that spoke of a deeper understanding of life than most humans possess; and pain, of his past and his future-something she could not yet understand. His chestnut hair fell to his shoulders and flew about him in a shining mane as he ran through the dappled glades. He was immediately enchanting. He held himself as a king would, tall and strong; his face was not lined by worry but the ghost of a furrow was present at his brow. His strong jaw was covered with short stubble, he looked, the elf maid thought, like a statue hewn from the finest marble.   
Aragorn slowed upon his approach and for the first time, saw the dark haired elf properly. Her eyes, he could now see, were the colour of a placid sea. He had only seen the sea once before, long ago, but in these eyes he felt he could see the depths of the water and the heights of the brightest stars. He was transfixed entirely but his feet moved him ever closer to her still form. She wore a dress of the palest blue, like ice. There were silver flowers sewn into the large sleeves of her dress that brushed along the forest floor, and a star seemed to glow around her slender neck.   
Finally they stood face to face, and the silence between them was then not broken for a few long moments- a stillness that stretched on and on but was almost too comfortable to abandon. Finally Aragorn broke it in the hope of preventing this beautiful vision from fading before his eyes. “How is it, that my lady Luthien Tinuviel has once more graced the earth with her presence and beauty? How is it that I have been granted the blessing of beholding you in the fading light?”. She looked at him hard, then laughed softly- a sound that reminded Aragorn of a Summer breeze. “You are greatly mistaken, my lord. I am not she that you call Tinuviel for she has long passed through the veils of this world and onto the next. My name is Arwen and I am come to the home of my father once more, for many seasons have I been away”. Upon hearing her name, a great gladness and clarity came over Aragorn such as he had never felt. For it seemed to him now that even ‘Luthien’ was ill fitted to her, for she was surely more beautiful still than the ancient elven lady, he thought. And that she was real and alive, not a waking dream filled Aragorn with a hope and determination that he had not known before.   
She smiled at him, a kind and knowing smile that suggested she understood all the thoughts and emotions flowing through him. He stood tall before her in a deep red tunic unmistakably of elven making. He was so young (though his bearing seemed older), she thought, so care free and unacquainted with the world. She could not help but be instantly attracted to this man, for he was kind and well spoken; he held himself as an honourable man would and the twinkling in his eyes seemed to speak of a yearn for adventure and a higher understanding that she also felt in her own soul. His mouth curved upward in a half smile.  
And in that moment she felt that some piece of her she had not known had been missing these past years of her life had been restored to her, and under the greying light of the trees she felt the first pangs of sorrow and love in her life. She was then certain that their fates would be intrinsically intertwined, bringing with it many things-both the good and the painful, but she was glad for all of it, she would rather suffer than feel nothing. The wisdom that comes with years rested upon her elegant brow but she was yet young, and so the daughter of Elrond found true peace for the first time in a dappled glade with a ranger she had known but moments.   
Aragorn felt a similar tug in himself, the endless foreboding at the back of his mind was truly silenced for the duration of this short encounter, something that had not happened to him for years. All else seemed to melt away as she stood before him, unabashedly gazing at this unusual man. She was the life and soul of this world, he felt, it was she that gave the sky and flowers their colour. By her leave, fire took its vivacity and the ocean took its depths. She was infinite and whole, he was sure that the light of stars ran through her veins. It was in each other they found their true beginning and end.   
Arwen looked closely at Aragorn, a thin scar seemed to shine against the tan skin of his cheek, she traced it lightly with her finger, an involuntary action she had not been aware of until too late. But she was not embarrassed, and the tall, dark-haired Dunedain didn’t seem to mind. The familiarity of the touch was warm and reassuring, like the light of dawn spreading across a steely sky, each leaning slightly into the touch. Arwen made to move her hand away as she posed her first question to the stranger, “And who are you, that is so well versed in the language of my kin and that wanders so aimlessly through these woods?”. She moved her eyes towards the golden bell flowers that started to glow faintly around her feet as the stars began to twinkle above them, but her gaze fluttered back to his handsome face as he took her falling hand in his, he had long calloused fingers and warm palms. Hands that could have been equally at home playing the most delicate of instruments or wielding the most deadly of weapons on the fields of battle. His long fingers entwined with hers as he responded. “I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I came here many moons ago upon the death of my father and have found peace and solace here in the time since.” She looked upon him then, realisation dawning on her. She saw now clearly what had been veiled from her before. He was of the ancient line of kings, descended from the north, it was he who was Isilduir’s heir and heir to the throne of Gondor, a king of men should he so desire it. But he was not arrogant as so many of these kings had been, in him she sensed a great reluctance to this fate, but also an unquenchable call of duty to those that might be protected by the strength he could offer them. He was in possession of the long life of Numenor, something her heart secretly rejoiced in. The unparalleled light of his eyes, the knowledge and wisdom therein all made sense now as she saw him for all that he was, and all that he would become. A king, a beacon, her foresight showed, that she would help him become, to realise that not all of the same line were doomed to the same fate. To convince him of his goodness and the not yet dwindled strength of the race of men.  
There they stood, as the stars shone above in the mantle of endless midnight like orbs of liquid mithril, for many hours. Their fates not yet decided but now more clear than the mist that had shrouded each previously. Thus it was that the first meeting of Aragorn and Arwen unfolded and their lives were forever changed.


End file.
